The Little Match Girl
by themicemen
Summary: Based on the Hans Christian Andersen’s story of the Little Match Girl. John remembers all the times he’s ever felt cold, loses some shoes and finds his angel. Bobby/John John/OC


For that last image you would have to heave your charming selves over to deviantART and check out artist anry's work titled: Snowdrop. The first time I saw it, I was taken away by the sadness and the beauty and I'm afraid that was something along the lines of how I had imagined John would turn out in this story.

John is a little _too_ sad - by which I mean pathetic - and Bobby's a little _too_ oafish but if you can't have character extremes in your superheroes, where else can you find them?

* * *

He struck the last match in the matchbook and watched, hypnotised, as the flame danced on the wood and then made its way through his fingers. He lit himself a cigarette.

It was so cold here. John had never really noticed just how cold it could be at this time of year, what with living through the New Year in the sweltering heat of the Australian summers and then in the comfortable warmth of the mansion. He couldn't remember the last time that the weather gnawed at his fiery core without knowing that he could return to the heat anytime he wanted.

"_It's not normal John, this… this thing – it's disgusting! It's a sinful crime, John!"_

_John knew what he wasn't saying: "You're not normal, John. You're disgusting. You're a sinful criminal."_

Oh wait – Alkali Lake.

John had forgotten that it had been snowing outside until the moment the jet's doors opened. He had felt his hair stirring erratically in the wind and turned to see Bobby standing with Rogue – a unified front against him and all that he was – and realised that they possessed a perfection he lacked. Later on, he heard on the news that a major bushfire in the Upper Gippsland area had been contained.

John used the glowing filter to light another.

_On reconsideration, John thought that maybe Bobby had been frightened of what he was. When you were a minority amongst the minority, it was almost asking for double persecution._

_Bobby could put a dampener on his emotions at a moment's notice._

And then again at Alcatraz.

It was cold then too, when Bobby's hands had suddenly gripped his wrists and the flames that he had felt pouring unhindered from his fingertips were engulfed by Bobby's ice. He felt, then, that his arms were suddenly cauterised stumps and the fire that burned deep inside of him faded a little more.

_It was nice to be sleeping on clean sheets next to a warm body. John snatched greedily at these brief moments of contentment whenever they happened to pass his way. But sometimes, he must admit, it paid to be more careful._

_He had been so high off the good, fuzzy feelings that he was too slow to react to the sudden stiffening of the body next to him._

"_What the fuck are you still doing here?"_

_John was shoved off the bed onto the hardwood floor and the sudden cold meeting his flushed skin made him gasp._

"_Get the fuck out of here! I didn't pay you to screw then sleep!"_

_John scrambled out of the apartment so fast that he left most of his clothes inside. It was a good thing that the stranger had enough vestiges of empathy to have thrown them out of his window. John picked up his trousers and a jacket and stared forlornly at the rest of his raiments caught on the buildings various balconies._

Last fag. Somewhere in John's mind, his old self laughed at the word.

He wasn't cold anymore – not that he was ever cold to begin with (the wind was cold, so was the doorstep that he was sitting on as well as the snow beneath his bare feet) – he just couldn't feel his fingers.

Nothing wrong with that.

The door was warm against his back and John thought that he could hear the steady bass beat of the music grow dimmer. He was so tired.

A star streaked down the inky sky, and somewhere, someone's flame died out.

When Bobby stumbled drunkenly out of the club's back door in the early hours of the morning, he heaved wretchedly into the gutter before noticing John's huddled form on the steps.

Jack Frost had drawn a thin layer of rime over John's cheeks, his thin, bluish fingers had burrowed into the sleeves of his jacket and his bare feet were curled up into his body. On his dark lashes there was a soft dusting of ice.

Bobby noticed the three cigarette butts on the ground near his feet – smoked to the filter – and remembered how John had always loved the warmth of the flame.

"Oh Johnny, I'm so sorry."

He picked up John's curled figure and as the ice fell off him in clumps, it seemed almost as if he was alive again – rosy cheeked with a faint smirk on his face.

Bobby placed a soft kiss on that smirk.

"Let's go home."


End file.
